


Terrible Synchronicity

by drvology



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:30:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drvology/pseuds/drvology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rebellion in Space. Agron and Nasir make first contact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terrible Synchronicity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radiophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/gifts).



> I felt like writing but didn't have ideas [and wanted a break from the stuff I should be working on instead]. Ergo, ask friends for prompts time. Prompts from radiophile as "SPACE!AU - Agron&Nasir are rebelling against the Republic, maybe one of them is an alien?? --OR- ASSASSINS/SECRET AGENTS!AU - one or both of them are hired to kill the other, perhaps??"
> 
> \--- HOW ABOUT BOTH. WITHOUT QUITE GETTING INTO EITHER [WHOOPS?]. A whole lot of details & noodling compacted into a somewhat reworked canon introduction. Maybe later I'll take another crack at these, and see if I can do more than this relatively literal approach.

Agron had been born on a distant, humble planet, one that for centuries saw itself protected from the Republic's rapacious maws by virtue of distance alone. As a child Agron had no concerns save for harassing his brother, learning the skills to pass every trial that would see him ushered into manhood, and making his father proud. The twin suns had always shone, their light making summer days hot and plentiful, their absence rendering winter all the darker when the only the pale moon whose cast the suns overpowered at last glowed. These sentries pushed and pulled the great river, whispered to the animals when it was time to rut and when it was time rest, and their passing sculpted Agron and his brother from gangly saplings into broad-shouldered trees.

Home was eternal and her graces eternally bestowed. It was safe and its survival uncomplicated. Agron's people would always flourish beneath the dome of the sky, whether in its summerhaze dun or winter's inky stars.

But terrible synchronicity paced Agron's fates. As he had grown the universe had proportionally shrunk, and in that collapse came rumors then straggling refugees from parts far-flung and unknown, and chasing after, red-cloaked scouts and a flag with a great war bird no one recognized but struck fear in their veins. Until one cold day--the last day--the shadow of the Republic's hulking mass had blotted the suns and taken his entire world with them.

Agron and his brother Duro--naive, headstrong Duro--had been among the taken. Churned through the great cogs that powered the Republic's dread and ceaseless machine. They'd been shipped, stripped, turned into soldiers whose ranks were then dispatched to all manner of misdeed. They were forced to become the fist of the Republic's ever-stretching arm, the head of the spear, the poisoned talon. Camaraderie overcame divisions in species and sector only by who made it out alive that day, and the next, into the ever-blurring distance, as they conquered planets and quelled unrest and ably slaughtered dissidents.

From that Agron had learned the art of the kill, battle tactics, and how to deaden sorrow with the scar tissue of rage and false triumph in bloodlust. He'd been taught a sword held by the thousand-upon-thousands worked as well as any more advanced weapon available to the Republic, more reliably on wet planets or arid planets and cost the Republic so little, only lives. He'd met Spartacus, threw his lot to the Rebellion and they'd torn themselves free, while everything else was lost.

The last place Agron had loved was home, today a blackened shell cracked under the Republic's boot; a fitting mirror to Agron to be sure. The last person he had loved had been his brother, dead and fallen at his side during the Endless Wars. Not by his hand but to his every fault, and failure. Agron had since vowed allegiance to Spartacus, and to love nothing and no other; to never again fall prey to such a pious, pitiless and fool sentiment.

He was no cause or worth for it, besides. Likely could not return such even if implored. Agron the boy, whose heart a mother he barely recalled had said burned with a warmth brighter than their suns, was no more.

He was so steeped in bitterness from loss and hardened by death he was certain it'd become grafted to his bones like nanomarker circuitry. Indelible and hardwired and would identify him as one who killed without pause or mercy--taste of those fallen by his hand and scent of those once close in his heart always rancid in the ether of his periphery--as surely as he'd once been coded as Regiment: Warrior Class.

He bore that coding still, no way to deactivate or erase its stain. Swore at times that he could press his thumb to the radial notch, deep below flesh in his arm where the marker had been implanted, and feel its malignant throb. He'd paid its intention back more than a thousand-fold by now, the Republic's branding false, and this was but the beginning of his revenge. But death would never be cleansed from him.

Agron was not unique in this; there was nothing special nor singularly tragic about his circumstance that set him apart from the rest. That, as much as any true alliance or self-preserving need for the each other, had forged a kinship between them.

Them--the Rebellion--those who had bucked the very stars in a bid to gain freedom among the heavens.

But he did not dwell. Did not linger in casualty or causality. Forward momentum often kept a man alive as much or equal to skill and persistence.

Agron scanned the haul of their latest attack, a biostasis governance of midsize on a desolate moon belonging to some Civilian who did whatever such scum attended for the Republic. Several lost and more than a few hours of battle had garnered them a cache of weapons, precious little ammunition, and no vehicles or fuel cells.

He had seen this before.

The property was secure, communications knocked out, and the gathered survivors were lined dutifully before Spartacus.

Almost to the last they regarded Spartacus more in readiness to recalibrate their allegiance factors to a new master than to be stirred by his flowery talk of freedom and what opportunities lay for them beyond this dreary moon's pits and dunes. The dark one with dark eyes who stood with them but separately--a house slave and with status by appearance and dress--gave Agron pause.

Fluttering in his belly, lower. Tightness like a punch that lifted his diaphragm and made his legs ache to split then grasp then tangle. His fingers worked, knuckles creaking and fingertips aflame, anticipatory tactile weakness he hadn't felt or allowed himself in an age.

Agron ruthlessly tamped these reactions down, cast them aside.

"At the very least we should make sure the next outpost we raid has a fucking Scorpion. Even a pleasure barge would be an improvement to--this." Agron's nostrils flared and he turned from the slaves. Because of annoyance, not to save himself further staring and such unwanted responsiveness, certainly.

"We gained two starships in the past three attacks. Today we gain supplies, extra hands, and perhaps even a warrior or two," Donar said patiently. "Besides. How can we be sure an outpost has a Scorpion or even a freighter before we strike?"

"I don't know. Send inquiry?" Agron sniped. "They're arrogant and stupid enough to answer."

"And if they don't?"

"Which?"

Donar raised a brow. "Answer."

"We annihilate them and move on." Agron was sangfroid at best, out of tolerance for this 'emancipating the masses' cock-diddling at worst.

Donar elbowed him in warning but Agron shrugged unapologetically.

"These raids weaken the Republic, but marginally, and only the edges. We are like a conical tick on a sour-hide bison's ass--which is to say, hardly a pest worthy of notice. What a waste, in our number and strength, and in what we gain back." He curled a sardonic lip at the slaves, eyed again the small dark one, throttled the tenaciously persistent interest with thicker contempt. "We should strike at the gut, the nerves, the center even. This petty bullshit--"

"--is as much to our cause as your coveted outright destruction and siege, Agron." Spartacus had joined them, a single pace taken back to stand beside them.

"Yes, yes," Agron said caustically. "If you are free and I am free then all deserve to be free." He gestured superciliously then lowered his tone so it wouldn't carry. "Fine and so be it, but our burdens will soon outweigh our abilities and your best intentions. And--" he looked again at that one particular slave-- "do not dismiss it as undue caution to at least give attention to the small, dark one in the center. There is something about him."

"What? That your eyes have, since our arrival, been clapped upon him as a ship anchored by inertial moorings?" Donar asked lightly, hint of mockery and a knowing smile brightening his eyes that wasn't otherwise betrayed in his quizzical expression.

"Fuck off," Agron bit out, but the only heat the words carried was the bare flush that tinged his neck and cheeks. "No, it's something that's familiar in how he moves, is carrying himself. Something off even, but I can't say exactly what."

A jumble replayed in frustrating shadow and fragments in Agron's mind, images and sensations he could not fully capture to settle upon as evidence or outright deny as mere paranoia. But he'd been here before, somehow, and this unsettled prescience was more than his raised umbrage. He bared his teeth and shifted onto his heels.

"Let us hope my distrust doesn't bear out. Just--don't ask me to scour another dead planet for the rations to feed them, or that somehow we are to carry their weight when you expect that same energy to be given in battle." He turned away before any equitable insight could be made that would only anger him further. "So you've freed them, Spartacus. Enjoy the tending of them as well."

That he said nastily, and loudly enough to be heard by everyone, ignored when Donar would have called him back. Then something snapped, switched or flipped--something in his phrase or tone or perceived meaning was incendiary.

From the docile line of slaves there was a burst of violence. The flash of metal, thin and blue and sharp. A throaty yell overlapping warning voices with a growling timber underneath. Agron required three long strides and less that in seconds to react, paused within the tight inhale that precedes death with the tip of his sword held to the jugular of the slave who'd caught his unwilling attention.

Agron's logic was cruel, tortured even, but he was determined to be who cut this man down. It was he who had sensed something amiss, he who had strayed from Spartacus even after those suspicions, he who had been stirred to something far different by this slave. He should be the one to kill, to protect, this rite the only strange control or possession he'd ever be able to make claim to.

"No--Agron no!" Spartacus' forearm was hard and unyielding across Agron's chest. "Agron. Lower your weapon."

He worked his jaw but would not yield. The slave held a stiletto to Spartacus' breast, and their gazes clashed, showed to Agron fear and conflict in myriad shades he could not give name.

"Agron," Spartacus repeated, shook him almost gently, at last penetrated the red veil that enveloped Agron in thrall at such times.

"Brash, stupid little--" Agron broke off and shook from Spartacus' hand. "What were you even thinking? To attack, here, like this, in front of all and you so ill-suited for the task?"

The slave didn't flinch or cower beneath Agron's formidable bulk and glowering. But he did release the thin dagger and made no further move of aggression, and a shocking paleness spread under his skin from the dint Agron's sword had pierced. He swayed and began to crumple, then Spartacus caught him with an arm.

The slave motioned helplessly, wide-eyed and uncertain, could not answer Spartacus' lowly voiced questions. 

Agron was hit in the solar plexus with jealousy, irrational ridiculous jealousy, then shocking clarity of memory jarred loose. He had seen behavior like this before. Remembered now. Watching the precise Republic fighting elite suddenly turn, the bizarre and discomfiting, twitchy behavior that preceded. How they'd be forced to detonate their own bundle of radiation grenades or worse if the generals on high deemed their sacrifice worth the trade in enemy numbers. He had seen it before--from both sides.

Agron had yet to sheath his sword, grappled it awkwardly when Spartacus transferred the slave to him while they both righted.

"He was not himself--an implant was triggered, I'm sure of it." Spartacus frowned. "Given the specificity of action, I think it only fair to assume the Republic has begun building biocode intended solely for me."

"A true honor bestowed," Agron said darkly. It was, unfortunately, a reasonable assumption, and a favored house slave of status the logical choice for a threatened Dominus to program then unleash. He narrowed his focus to the man leaned against him. "What then are we to do with this?"

"Same consideration and treatment as the rest, Agron." Spartacus clapped a hand on Agron's shoulder, the contact made to calm and stay further reaction as much as anything.

Agron grumbled. "Likely unwise." He wasn't sure on whose behalf he spoke. "Your word spares him, Spartacus, but let mine be heard that I will be keeping careful watch of this one."

"Oh, I am sure you will," Donar piped up, fallen away to stand with the rest of the gathered rebels, tartly enough to make even that cock Crixus laugh.

Agron did not give voice to any returned insult, but his glare spoke volumes.

"It is good you volunteer, as I was to assign you the task." Spartacus smiled guilelessly. "Accompany him to a Medic and see he is thoroughly checked. Then see that you both eat."

"And if there are more bugs in his system? Then do I exterminate?" Implant or no, it remained to be seen where the loyalties of this little slave would fall, and if eventually it would show further mettle or prove a nuisance.

Agron would miss this one, were that the case. He could not say why but he knew it, unerring.

Spartacus shook his head but laughed. "Consider this. He did not immediately strike at learning who I was, and when he did strike, the blow was checked. It was not your sword that stopped his dagger, or the programming--it was the bearing of his will." He paused meaningfully. "A man worthy of saving, and a second chance, would you not agree?"

Agron could only grumble more, for despite all better sense he was grateful, and relieved. He thought about their plans for the night, what would follow the raid, the tasks all must accomplish.

"You shouldn't," the slave sneered, expression becoming exaggerated and fierce. He tipped further into Agron, kicked out, and made a grab for Agron's sword.

Agron had split a sucking wound in the slave's ribs before he could even think. Before he could take it back. He staggered away, and bile burned his throat, and the weight of his sword slipped from his grasp to reveal blood-soaked hands.

Spartacus turned to him with outraged disbelief, and those in the background began to shout, sounded distorted and muffled.

Agron denied--began to shake--stammered. Acrid smoke from the smoldering heaps and charred ruins choked him and Agron curled his fingers into his palms, hid them tucked to his chest. It was rare he regretted a kill and he listened to the slave's death rattle and wished he'd hesitated. He hunched further, clutched at the armor that shielded his sternum, tried to stop the world from spinning.

Tried to stop, tried to stop. Something about this. Something he'd seen before.

"Agron, Agron!"

He blinked and cringed, slammed his eyes shut again. Too bright and his head hurt, was being cleaved in twain. They'd landed on an outpost, a bigger target, and then. What?

Nasir. Fucking gods no--Nasir.

He screamed it, finally gave up the unremitting hold he had on himself, blindly reached out and nearly came undone when he clawed only emptiness.

"Here, right here. Agron, please. He's right here."

Agron fought, showed his teeth, because someone was lying. Something was wrong. He remembered the first time he had seen Nasir, how they had met--but not quite like that--how he'd been a horrible mess of smitten and derisive and clumsy. He didn't remember Nasir going for Spartacus a second time. He wouldn't have--could not--kill--

He began to shut down again, a fast a willing stoop into darkness, the alternatives too grave and overwhelming to bear.

They'd been attacking an outpost. A station not a planet. A port with slavers and ships and--then what. Gray mist, a stinging, searing pain.

"You brought me wine, asked my name, and my bold answer was I displeased you."

A sure, familiar touch caressed Agron's brow, and his hand was knotted tightly in another. He smiled, turned his head into what he knew would be the kiss sure to follow, smiled again after one was shared.

Agron hummed, felt his panic lessen but he was still unbalanced, pitched on too narrow an edge, cold.

"You assured me with no hesitation or softening of tone that I did, but only because I would with almost certainty soon cause you to break your word, something you'd never done before."

That Agron did remember. He knew he'd made no sense, back then, telling Nasir such a thing.

"I understand your meaning, now. And will say it in front of everyone without shame if you do not open your eyes and return to me."

That was for no one else to know.

Agron tried to sit up, immediately regretted it, and groaned his way back to lying down. He found himself shuffled, left to be cradled in Nasir's strong form, Spartacus leaned over him full of warm concern, with Donar, Mira and even that cock Crixus hovering nearby.

Nasir was wan and his beautiful dark eyes were haunted, but he smiled bravely at Agron, then lowered to briefly rest their foreheads together.

"During the raid you were taken, but thankfully not irretrievably. That fear was only realized after we'd gotten you back and you refused to wake." Spartacus patted Agron's shoulder. "It is good to see you again, brother. We think they put a mining bot in you, but I'll be damned if you haven't outright fought it off. Now that you're awake we'll have you checked for sure."

Agron grunted and tried to sit up again, suddenly felt too aware of everyone's attention and how vulnerable and useless he was, like this.

They humored him. Propped him up as if already able to be under his own power, allowed him to spill more water than was poured as he slaked his thirst. He weakened quickly while Spartacus shooed everyone but Nasir away, and Nasir didn't react to his trembling or help him hold the cup until they were gone.

A mining bot was a vile, invasive thing. Its purpose was to get in the nervous system and dig around. Climb the spinal cord into the brain then see what there was to be found. Spartacus was very likely correct. Agron wanted to say he shouldn't be here, with Nasir so close, and so kindly treated as this, because if the bot was still in him he was still a threat.

"It is fine," Spartacus admonished, read his mind with no need of any aid. "Such a bot is passive, besides."

Agron grumped but allowed it--what argument to give, really--then Spartacus murmured a few instructions to Nasir and left to go patrol the encampment. They were to wait here for a Medic, and then Nasir would get them something to eat.

Agron chuckled; such an unintentional yet uncanny echoing tickled his black humor. 

He couldn't decide if the bot had unleashed anguished nightmares, had been sent to devastate him with psychological manipulations, or if it'd just been his own twisted methods of preventing the bot from uncovering any truths. What the bot had began with was true--Agron's home, being taken, joining Spartacus, even meeting Nasir. But as it had homed and needled and persisted, got closer to the core and sensitive information only he and few others knew about the Rebellion, Agron had reflexively provided the one thing to failsafe and short-circuit his entire system.

"Nasir," he sighed, turned so he could hunker into the join of Nasir's neck and shoulder, and Nasir easily supported his shift, kissed his temple. He was woozy, muzzy and everything was blurry at the edges. But Nasir felt real. Solid and wonderful and real. "I vowed I'd never love again you know," Agron said, slurred and soft as breath.

"I know. It is no wonder you were displeased. The mighty Agron from East Rine, his word and senses felled with such quick ease, and by a single stroke from one little man," Nasir answered, smiled so Agron could feel it against his skin.

"Never could I regret less a promise broken."

Agron grinned and laughed, blamed his state for how loose and sentimental his tongue, lifted his head so he could tuck their faces together. Nasir rubbed a thumb in slow circles over his cheek, along the groove of his dimple.

"We are matched in our agreement, then." Nasir moved enough to tilt their eyes to meet, swept Agron with a loving gaze and palpable relief. He was checking Agron. Heartbeat and temperature and the sallowness of flesh.

Subtly, but Agron could tell.

He didn't mind--not from Nasir. Agron closed his eyes after Nasir had taken stock of his pupils and ability to focus, again fit to the heat and pulse and security of Nasir's neck.

"In all things," he said, and wrapped Nasir in his arms.


End file.
